My Father's Study - A Short Story

I stride down the long, dusty corridors, peeking in every door, into every room, lined with hundreds of books that used to fill the void in me. 

I’m searching for something, really anything that will help as the inevitable march of time ticks off another day on the calendar, each one fleeting seemingly faster than the last.  

I had been resolved, just two short weeks ago. But here…now, I just feel confused. In my search for meaning, for the purpose of life, I’ve discovered Who holds the keys. I know it’s only Him. I’ve seen that fact come true in my own life.  

But Distraction waits at every corner. Every time I see him coming, I notice the quiet stillness in the air. My heart beats loud in my chest as I watch his octopus-like tentacles slowly, one-by-one, wrapping themselves around me. At first, I try to fight back, I thrash in his tight grip, thinking, “I can do this. I’m strong enough. I’ve fought him before, and won.” My vision is soon blurred and then blocked altogether.  

But I’ve forgotten.  

The One Who Holds The Keys had to rescue me. In the moment it all went black, He rode in shouting my name, calling me to follow Him out of the numbness that I’d let settle in around me. 

And then I’ll kneel at His feet, tears streaming down, promising to stay with Him this time, promising that I won’t leave Him again. But I do. I seem to always leave the safety and comfort of His light. But why? What for? So that I can feel in control?  

But as I kneel, my head bowed in shame, I don’t see the grace and mercy shining in His eyes. I barely feel a gentle hand on my shoulder. But I’m too afraid to look up. The guilt is too heavy.  

And so here I am again, searching these halls for answers to this confusion, to this emptiness I feel inside. I'm longing for peace in my heart, a peace and a joy that seeps deeper than circumstance. But the answer is before me. It always is. It’s the light shining from under the door at the end of the hall, the door that opens to my Father’s Study.  

I slowly shuffle forward, reluctant to knock. So, I wait at the door, hearing Him hum quietly to Himself from within. My mind taunts me. “Too guilty. Too guilty. He won’t ever want to see you. Not after you left Him again.” 

I know I should turn and leave. Why would He want to see me? How could He keep loving me? But my hand is already on the doorknob. I wince as the hinges squeak and squeal. “It’s too late to run away now.” I hesitantly push the door open—one inch wider, two—and jump when I see Him watching me.

With a kind smile, he stands before his desk, arms wide. I stand frozen, afraid that if I move a muscle, He will change His mind and hustle me out the door. And then I run straight into His arms, letting him hold me close.  

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” I cry out over and over, one choked breath at a time.  

“Hush, my child. Hush.” He pushes the hair away from my eyes, wiping each tear that falls. I let Him lead me over to a row of large barrels lined up on the right side of His study. “What does this say?” He motions to the sign nailed onto the top of the first barrel.  

“Un…Unconditional Love," I sniffle out.

Smiling, He leads me to the next barrel. “And this one?”  

This time a hiccup, before I say, “Forgive…Forgiveness.”  

After I read the words on each barrel, my heart seems to slow down beat by beat, and by the time we reach the end of the row, my hiccups are practically gone. But when I’ve read the last sign, He turns and looks at me, His expression unreadable.  

I can’t handle the quiet, can’t handle not knowing what He’s thinking about me. My eyes turn to the floor at my feet, and I study the knots and the grain texture of the dark planks of wood, wishing that a crack would open between two and I could slip down unnoticed and out from under His piercing gaze. 

Eventually I look up. And this time I see what I missed last time - the way His eyes shine and dance with each word that I’ve just read on the barrels, the way the corner of His mouth twitches with a smile.  

My own mouth begins to form the words, “I’m sorry,” but stops when He holds up one finger to His lips and says again, “Hush.” He motions to the row of barrels we just walked down, and I nod.  

My eyes drift over to the large oak desk, sitting in the middle of the room, the desk I assumed He had been sitting at when I had stood frozen before the door. It’s riddled with papers, to-do lists, probably prayer requests.  

Again, my gaze drifts, this time to a hanging on the wall to the left of the desk. “It’s not about what you’ve done or who the Enemy whispers that you are. I’m enough for you. I’m strong enough to fight your battles.” I smile slowly, knowing what comes next in the scrolling script. “Come to Me, all who are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest.”  

I turn to my Father, my eyes shiny with unshed tears, the smile on my face turned sad. Why? Because I know that I’ll stand hesitant at the door again, probably soon.  

Once again, He motions to the barrels in a neat row. “Unconditional,” He says quietly. “Not based on your actions, what you do or don’t do. My love for you is based on who I am, and it will never run out. So don’t let your mind tell you that I won’t want you to come to Me. Don’t listen to the lies that say you’ve made too many mistakes for Me to love you. I’m making you new. And as long as you have breath in your lungs, the process isn’t finished. I am not finished.”